A Crack in the Door
by janewithay
Summary: A lonely bartender on Cape Cod and a girl no one has ever seen. Together they form a tentative friendship through a crack between their doors ... but will the crack open wide enough to let love in? AH rated M for adult themes and situations.
1. Chapter 1: Cherry Pop

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, but it sure owns me.**_

A Big thank you to SunflowerFran3759 who graciously beta'd this chapter for me after reading it when I first posted. I would also like to thank Cared, who made me a gorgeous banner ... make sure to check it out on my profile!

A Crack in the Door

Chapter One

Cherry Pop

I saw her for the first time when I ran out to get maraschino cherries for the bar.

I put cherries on the order last week and they arrived on Wednesday same as always. But by Sunday they were history; a casualty of three bachelorette parties, where celebratory women of all shapes, sizes and ages had tossed back over ninety cosmopolitan's between them, within a span of two hours.

Now I blame this Cosmo shit totally on the Sex and the City crap that all the girls were crazy about a few years back. Honestly, these damn drinks have been the cause of more break ups, hook ups, and knock ups over the past ten years than I care to count. Because, let's face it, they're nothing but pure alcohol with just a tiny splash of cranberry juice to make them look pretty. That is if you know how to make them right. And believe me... I know how to make them right. I've been a bar-keep ever since my old man died and left me this joint. It's what I do and I do it well, even though it was his dream and not mine.

But that's a whole other story.

As for _this _story… well it all started last Saturday night. I was standing behind the bar mixing up another batch of those damn Cosmos when I heard the front door abruptly bang open. I looked up, startled to see a young guy with a popped up collar and worried eyes rush through all in a panic. I saw him mutter something to Mike, our bouncer, who gave me _the look._ I followed his eyes to a group of girls who were celebrating the impending marriage of their sorority sister… Phi Gama Drama Lama or some crap name like that. I can't remember off-hand what the name was but I knew from the way my neck tingled, that they were going to be trouble the minute they entered the bar. A good barkeeper always knows when there's gonna be trouble, it's that hinky feeling that begins in the neck and spreads like a virus throughout your whole body. That feeling doesn't normally go away until the first punch or the cops show up. I tried to ignore it that night because I was too busy to give it much thought and these girls were spending money and leaving good tips. But I know trouble when I see it, even when it's disguised in a pink and green Lily dress. (That I even know the brand Lily is a sad statement about me. It comes from living on Cape Cod, I guess.)

I handed the fresh batch of Cosmos to Angela and went on to mix up a batch of Dirty Martinis and then let out a little sigh. This sort of thing is common on a Saturday night in June. Fucking pre-wedding jitters and dramas…they usually mounted to nothing, but I kept my phone nearby just in case.

I strained my ears just a little to see what the hell was going on and that's when I overheard the panicky would-be groom tell Mike that he had received an upsetting text from the soon to be Maid of Honor telling him he needed to get his ass down here STAT_._ He stammered out in a huff that his buddies were super pissed that he had to leave_. Poor bastard_…he never even got to enjoy the first toast of the night.

Mike pointed him towards a group of girls and he carefully nudged his way inside. I strained my ears a little harder and could hear them wailing, _"Lauren! Oh my God! Are you all right? Oh, shit … look, Lindsay…she's on the floor. Again!"_

I let out a groan and slammed the shaker down on the bar with a thud; this was gonna be a long- ass night. I removed my apron and walked casually over the throng of girls and peered over their heads. Being six-foot four has its perks I guess, although being given a bird's-eye view of this particular scene wasn't one of them.

On the floor lay his drunken fiancée, sprawled face down, in a sopping mess of cranberry colored vomit. A cheap, makeshift veil that looked like a hot, glue gun had gone a wild with plastic flowers from Dollar Tree, billowed around her body. The image was grotesque, but fascinating, sort of like an episode of Say Yes to the Dress that was directed by Quentin Tarantino or something. (I want it to go on record that I only know about that show because Angela puts it on if the bar's quiet sometimes. Seriously, I don't watch that kind of shit unless I'm incredibly bored or forced.)

Anyway, seeing her sprawled out like that with the white veil thing made me think back to that short story we had to read in High School. What was it called? A Rose for…eh, somebody. I dunno. But Faulkner wrote it, I do remember that.

I saw her fiancée catch my eye and he shot me a piercing look. I picked up my cell phone and raised my eyebrows questioningly; Christ I hoped I didn't need to call 911. He shook his head curtly and I sighed in relief; I wasn't in the mood for an expensive lawsuit, thank-you- very much.

_"Excuse me…coming through!"_

I was practically laid flat on my ass when a redheaded beanpole knocked into me as she dashed towards the restroom with her hand over her mouth.

_"Wait, Bitsy…I'll hold your hair for you!"_ cried a petite blonde who sprinted after her.

Bitsy my ass…this chick was at least six-foot tall. Her parents must have been either incredibly blind or extremely ironic. Somehow I doubted they were either…just pretentious and hopeful.

_"Bunny…I've gotta go too!"_ shouted a slightly bigger girl, the only one in the crowd with any meat on her. Her thighs were massive and practically screamed…_captain of the field hockey team here…now get the hell out of my way before I mistake you for a puck!_

Oh for fucks sakes… these girls must have come in here half lit…I'd only filled their glasses once. I let out little sigh as I realized that they had all ordered the pre-requisite Cosmos. Damn that stupid Sex in the City for starting this trend. I mean these chicks were nothing but a bunch of skinny pickles dressed in thongs and short shorts; lightweights…the whole lot of them, (the exception being the hockey player with the bone crushing thighs.) They should have stuck to wine spritzers or hard lemonades.

I shook my head in disgust and I wondered for the umpteenth time why it was that women always dieted off all their curves. I get that they don't want to be fat, but why do they want to look like a skeleton with skin stretched over it?

None of these girls ever ordered food. Like, ever. Oh, unless it was a salad … with balsamic vinaigrette…then yeah, they'd place an order._ But only if you use light olive oil…then okay…but put it on the side. Oh, and hold the croutons. _And then when this ridiculous rabbit food arrives they pick at it like they're being forced to eat shit. Christ.

_"Bleh!"_ the hapless bride to-be retched, and another flood of pink puke, pooled on the floor.

_'Shit…I'll be staying up late scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees tonight,_ I'd thought to myself.

_"You sure you know what you're getting yourself into, Dude?" _I asked as he scooped up his hiccupping and sobbing bride-to-be off the sodden dance floor. My remark was meant to be playful but the tone sounded mocking, even to my own ears. I tried to soften up the bitterness by flashing him a grin that I followed with a small wink.

I felt as phony as I probably looked.

He glanced at me with a rue smile. His girl lay over his shoulder, and I watched in disgust as her mouth dripped a stream of pink, sour-smelling bile down his blue, chambray, button down shirt.

_Preppy asshole,_ I thought to myself. Christ with a polo stick … this town is full of them. Cape Cod in the summer is their personal little playground. Shit…they all look like they stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad or a Brooks Brothers catalogue. I'd like to strangle the lot of them with their Joseph A. Banks suspenders and deliver them home to Mummy all tied up nice and pretty with a perky little bow tie from Vineyard Vines. You know the kind I'm talking about… they have these miniature red lobsters or black labs printed all over them.

_"Urrrp!"_

I heard her let out a little burp and then a few hiccups as she mumbled, _"I knew you'd rescue me...you're my hero…my big beeyootifull handsome hero…mmm…. I love you Tripp." _

_Tripp_…well that fucking figures…Probably has a rich father named Skip and an even richer grandfather named Biff. Three generations of preppy assholes. What a legacy.

I heard him chuckle as he shifted her gently in his arms and patted her back soothingly.

"_HaveyougotmeTripper?"_ she muttered into his neck and closed her eyes. Her hand fell by his side and I noticed the diamond that dwarfed her left finger. It was big, square, and so damn shiny that a rainbow arced from her hand to the glasses over the bar. A fucking Kodak memory if there ever was one. I wondered if I should take a picture of this pre-wedding moment and send it to Town and Country Magazine for their Social column.

I let out a little snigger.

But I saw him then. I watched silently as his eyes grew tender and soft. I watched the way his large, well-groomed hand splayed protectively on her back and saw the small smile dance across his face as he touched her hair. My throat went tight for a second when I noticed the almost reverent way his lips pressed to her temple as he murmured, _"Shhh…I've got you baby." _

They were almost out the door when he suddenly stopped and turned around. His eyes caught my stare and he gave me a pointed look.

_"_I know exactly what I'm getting myself into, _Dude" _he said in a quiet voice. He gave me a smile that looked something very close to pity, as he walked out the door with his girl tucked safely in his arms. I watched him press his lips gently to the back of her neck and the door slowly closed shut on their silhouette.

I felt something then…a burning feeling in my chest that caused my heart to pound uncomfortably. I walked back over to the bar and reached under the counter for the Tums I kept there in case Mrs. Cope's nightly special got to my stomach. The woman was a wonderful, if experimental cook. She's worked for me in a variety of jobs ever since Pop died. But sometimes her cooking experiments got a little out of control…especially when they involved cayenne or jalapeños.

I popped a few tablets into my mouth and began to chew on them furiously hoping to stop the churning sensation. But it was pointless really, because after a few minutes my head started taking over and that's when I finally realized that the bile that was forming in my throat had nothing to do with what I'd eaten for supper. I stopped what I was doing and looked at myself hard in the mirrored glass of the bar. It was written all over my face.

Jealousy…

I was feeling fucking jealous.

Oh don't get me wrong, it wasn't because I was interested in _his_ girl…he could have ole- pink puke- till- death- do- them- part, every day of the week and twice on Sundays. No…it wasn't about her.

It was about what he had.

I closed my eyes briefly and thought of the way his hand looked as it lay protectively on her back. When I opened them I glanced down at my hands; they looked big and felt empty. I swallowed thickly, ran my hands through my mop of hair, and shrugged my shoulders. Okay, I'm not a stupid person. I know what I was looking at here and what I was feeling. I don't need a damn psychiatrist to tell me what I was feeling.

Lonely

Fuck it…yeah, I was lonely.

I _am_ lonely.

So what?

Everybody gets lonely sometimes.

I forced myself to look in the mirror again and ran my fingers through my hair. I needed a haircut, badly. I noticed that my eyes looked tired and that there were a few wrinkles around the corners. But what the hell…last Wednesday I turned twenty-nine years old. I'm not a kid anymore.

Okay, so I'm almost thirty and haven't had a steady girl friend since high school. Yeah I know. But I don't have time for that shit. Besides, I'm married to the bar, and she is one selfish bitch who keeps me hopping day and night, let me tell you.

Not that I don't have ample opportunities to meet girls, mind you. Those skinny Minnie's are always flirting with me at the bar, slipping me their phone numbers with little notes that say _call me_ scribbled on cocktail napkins and books of matches. I toss them into the trash every night along with the plastic straws and cherry stems and never give them a single thought. I mean I'm not a saint, don't get me wrong. I had a few laughs with some of them in the early years after Pop died, but nothing serious. I have to be careful with that shit since I live over the bar and all. Besides, I never was the kind of guy to fuck and duck. I worked the bar and heard too many sob stories from the fucks that were ducked over the years. I didn't want to be like those bastards who made girls feel like shit and forced them to tell their whole life story to a bartender between tears and beers.

I felt the loneliness settle in, and for the first time I found myself questioning why I never even considered pursuing any of these women. Some of them were nice girls. I didn't have a good answer so I put that thought away for the night along with the Cranberry Juice Cocktail and the coconut milk.

Anyway that was last Saturday night. As predicted, I spent the wee hours of Sunday morning scrubbing down the floor and mopping up the swill from the bachelorette party that had gone wrong. I fed Jenks, our bar cat. (Jenks was supposed to be our mouser but he is the laziest creature that God or Jesus ever blew breath into … that thing isn't gonna move his ass for anyone, let alone a mouse. He is actually terrified of them. Mrs. Cope assures me that if a mouse ever attempted to find its way upstairs that Jenks would 'Get him but good.' But, I have my doubts.) After I loved on Jenks for a while, (what…he may be a lazy ass but he needs a little love on occasion, too. Besides, he's all I've got.) I climbed upstairs and crashed until four o clock in the afternoon; I was wiped. We didn't normally close the bar on Sunday; but I made a decision to do so last week because I needed to give the bar a major cleaning and go over the accounting before the audit.

I grabbed a plate of leftover spaghetti that Mrs. Cope had made me a few nights ago, took a long hot shower, fooled around on the computer, paid some bills, and then reluctantly went downstairs to get the bar ready for Monday afternoon.

That's when I noticed we were all out of cherries.

I walked out of the bar and headed down to Souza's Market to buy the dusty and overpriced jars of maraschino cherries that old lady Souza has probably had sitting on the shelf since nineteen seventy-seven. I let out a chuckle because she was a character and a half. She barely speaks a word of English, despite the fact that she left Portugal right after World War Two. Jesus, she must be almost ninety now; her grandson Emmett, had been my best friend all through high school. We hadn't seen each other in over a year though; he married right out of law school and moved with his tony wife to Greenwich, Connecticut.

"Just what the world needs, _another _preppy asshole," I muttered unkindly. Then I felt bad because Em was a good guy and he didn't deserve my contempt. It wasn't his fault that Pop kicked the bucket a few weeks before school began. Emmett and I were supposed to attend Yale and room together. After that the plan was to go to the prestigious Yale School of Law and open a practice together in Boston or maybe even New York. We'd talked about that since we were in the fifth grade and had to do a project about Federal Laws versus State Laws. What can I say; we got hooked on that shit and our project is still used as an example of excellence behind the glass case of Seaconch Elementary School.

Emmett's father was killed in the Gulf War and he was raised by his mother and her parents for the most part. His grandfathers on both sides of his family worked hard to save the money to put Emmett through college, and the entire Souza-McCarty clan had burst with pride when he'd been accepted to an Ivy League school.

My old man, however, was a different story altogether. His reaction had been less than enthusiastic when he heard the news that I had also been admitted to the class of two-thousand-two on a full scholarship.

"_But who'll run the bar after I'm gone if you become a lawyer, kid?" _he said when he put down my acceptance letter on the gleaming, wooden counter.

Well that question answered itself a few weeks later when Pop changed the beer kegs and dropped dead on the bar floor. His sudden demise left me as the owner and operator of The Swan Dive (welcoming thirsty travelers since 1982) and my dream of becoming a hot-shot attorney died too.

_The Swan Dive... _crazy name I know. My mother had been a principal ballerina with the Boston Ballet before she retired her toe shoes and married Pop. She had suggested the name, Swan Song as a nod to her new station in life. Pop countered with the name Swan Dive, and had the sign made before the ink was dry on their marriage certificate.

She'd been a tiny thing judging from her pictures, but according to my father she was also stubborn and feisty as hell. She met my dad while summering with her folks on the Cape and married him that fall, despite her parents' protests. When they found out she was pregnant with yours truly, they'd cut her off without a dime, and she never looked back. She died from a brain hemorrhage when I was five years old and I barely remember her, although I sometimes feel a painful twinge in my heart when I creep past the master bedroom that she and my father once shared. There is a floral smell that still clings to the air and attempts to stir up a memory of sorts, but I never allow it to go any further than my nose. I mean, what would be the point?

Anyway my Pop refused to sleep in that room after she died saying_, "It still smells like her… I just… I can't …"_

After a few months of walking around like a zombie, he took to sleeping in the guest room. But, that hardly mattered; my dead mother's perfume continued to waft between us. Her fragrance lulled me to sleep night after night. But poor old Pop couldn't take it and he eventually moved out of our place and moved into the one next door. He left me in the old apartment because all my "shit was in there." Besides, he thought in his head that it would be too much of 'an adjustment,' what with my mother being dead and all.

It was a weird arrangement for a kid I suppose but we were hardly ever in it anyway except to sleep. Besides we had Mrs. Cope to look after us for quite a few of those years and sometimes Esme and Carlisle checked in on us, too. I heard Esme tell my father one night when she thought I was asleep, _"It isn't right…a child like that sleeping all by himself. I wish you'd let Carlisle and I take him, at least for the summer. Elizabeth wouldn't want her son to be alone, Eddie." _But I guess Pop's silence shut her up that night because she never asked again as far as I knew. It's too bad really because I would have enjoyed living in Boston, even though their home was, and still is, in that hoity-toity section for the truly élite known as Chestnut Hill; talk about Snobville.

After Pop died I had to get Mrs. Cope to help me run things. I was only eighteen and not even old enough to have a drink, let alone run a bar. Mrs. Cope was great, she galvanized into action and soon we had a crew of locals, and occasionally some college kids who wanted to work on the Cape for the summer.

The Swan Dive had been a popular place with both the natives and the tourists for a while by then, so the place pretty much sustained itself. I always had a good head for numbers and I was able to take over the bookkeeping within a few months. Then we hired Mike and shortly after that, Tyler, who taught me how to tend bar and who became my best friend.

Shit. I really didn't want to think about Tyler and his sad little story either, so I put him away for the night too.

I remember shaking my head to free it of the memory of my father and Tyler, and all of our lost dreams as I walked past the bar and turned the corner. It was a chilly night for late June, though not unusual for the Cape. I reached into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes, but it was just a habit really, because I'd quit two years ago. I still missed it though. I stopped for a few minutes and watched as the moon grew dim over the canal when a cloud passed over it. The fog was rolling in and an unexpected shiver crawled down my spine.

I remember thinking about cats and graves.

My back stiffened further when I heard a sound coming from the direction of the bar and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the door slam shut. Somebody was on the terrace over the bar that was between the two apartments.

_What the fuck?_

I sighed in relief when I remembered that Mrs. Cope had told me last week that the new tenant had arrived on Thursday. It had been my only day off and I'd spent it in Boston with Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle had been my mother's baby brother and was now the only surviving member of her family. Even though her parents had disowned her, Carlisle came around as soon as he was old enough to drive himself to the Cape. We didn't see him often when I was a little kid because he was always away at school. He became a doctor and specializes in blood disorders. He's filthy rich, but he's a decent guy and his wife, Esme, has always been kind to me. They're constantly trying to give me money to help out with the bar and stuff but Pop wouldn't have gone for that at all, so I always thank them and shake my head no.

Besides, after ten years of trying hard for a kid, they finally had one. Alice is now four years old. Last year she was diagnosed with some form of Autism. She rarely ever speaks but when she does it's bizarre. Like she'll be in the middle of twirling for the zillionth time and suddenly she'll stop in mid twirl and say something really random like, "You have big green eyes like the moon. I'm going to call you Moon. You look like a moon. You have a big head and you have green eyes. Leprechaun's are green, too." And then she'll resume her twirling. Last weekend though she was sitting on the floor playing with a top watching it spin for what seemed like hours. But she stopped suddenly and looked up at me and said very clearly, "You're going to get married next year. Priests and nuns don't get married but Edward's do." Esme overheard her and chuckled in the kitchen. Esme laughs at everything Alice says and she is so relaxed around her it's amazing. You'd think it would be fucking heartbreaking for her to try for a baby all those years only to end up with a child, who has special needs, but she isn't upset or disappointed in the least and neither is Carlisle. They adore Alice and tell me all the time how intelligent she is and what a privilege it is to be able to see the world from such a unique perspective. I dunno…maybe they're right. Alice is without a doubt one of the most beautiful little girls I've ever seen and she is certainly well-organized; her dolls are all lined up against the wall in order of hair color and height. She has Seventy-eight dolls according to her records. Yep, at four years old she can already read and write. She can also do math in her head and if you tell her a date she can tell you what day of the week that occurred. It's really quite impressive; I could use her organizational and mathematical skills at the bar. Besides all that, I love her to pieces. I'm the only one she lets hug her, like _really_ hug her, for any length of time. That's the only time I ever see Esme get emotional over Alice's ways.

We'd had a really great day together eating our way through Faneuil Hall and later, after Esme's mother picked up Alice, we capped off the night with a few drinks at the Union Oyster Company. I crashed on their couch for a few hours to sleep off my buzz and didn't get back to the Cape until the early hours of Friday morning.

Well shit … I'd completely forgotten that Pop's old apartment was finally rented after all these years. I had no time to set up interviews and I left Mrs. Cope in charge of everything. I didn't even know the name of the renter, only that she was a young woman and had paid the first three months' rent in cash. Honestly I was too busy and exhausted to care. If Shelly Cope said she'd met her approval then it was fine with me. Mrs. Cope was the only constant in my life since Pop cashed his last chips in, and I trusted her explicitly. Hell…I loved her. She's bat-shit crazy half the time, but she's crazy as a fox too. Last week she looked at me when I was wiping down the bar and said_, "Brace yourself Teddy__;__ there's a new moon coming. Change is in the air…"_ She always says shit like that and I just smile at her indulgently as I open the register and get the deposits ready to go to the bank, or whatever.

I started walking again and thought about the new tenant. I wondered if I should go up and introduce myself when I got back from the market. I really wasn't interested in getting involved with her personally, but I didn't want to be rude either. It was inevitable that our paths would cross eventually. I let out a groan and shrugged my shoulders in resignation. I wasn't really a sociable guy when I came out from behind the bar, and making friends wasn't high on my list. I hoped she wasn't expecting to make nice with me on the regular, and start dropping by for coffee and shit. I mean, yeah, I might be a little lonely but I don't want to get myself mixed up with a neighbor, either.

Dong-dong-dong-dong-dong-dong-dong-dong-dong!

I stopped for a minute to hear the bells from Saint Mary's of the Sea announce to the good people of Seaconch that it was nine o' clock. I started to walk faster hoping that old lady Souza would let me in when she saw it was me since I knew she closed up at nine. If she had already cashed out I could run by with the money tomorrow night. But I needed to get the bar ready early because I was meeting with the bank tomorrow to discuss a loan so we could add another restroom and expand the kitchen. Mrs. Cope has been after me for the past two years to do both.

I stepped off the curb and began to cross the street, when this heartbreaking and fucking, gut- wrenching sob rang out in the night. The cry was so damn loud and pathetic that it forced me to stop dead in my tracks; and I was rooted to the spot. My heart practically pounded out of its chest as I looked up at the roof, searching for the source.

And that's when I saw her for the first time.

**Author's note:** _Finally_...a new story! This is my first attempt at an all human Edward and Bella fic and I'm very excited to have it debut. (Please note that although this story has been pre-read by my nephew (who is in fact, a bartender on Cape Cod) it is not beta'd. Coleen561 who normally serves as both my pre-reader and beta has been incredibly busy with RL, so this chapter will no doubt have some grammatical issues. If you spot any glaring ones please be kind enough to point them out to me in a pm and I will attempt to fix them asap.) Thank you also to Rochelle Allison who pre-read this story for me last summer and who offered me some excellent suggestions as well as encouragement and support. It was much appreciated. I don't expect that this will be a terribly long story but we'll see where these characters take us; they've rolled around in my head for well over a year.

I hope you enjoy my new writing venture. Please be so kind as to let me know what you think so far. I'm not one to beg for reviews but it would be great to know your thoughts.

EDIT: If you have received a chapter update for this, I apologize. Sunflowerfran3759 offered to serve as beta for me in Coleen's absence, so I pulled the original chapter and replaced it with this one. A new chapter should be up soon. Thank you for your support!

Jayne xo


	2. Chapter 2: Upstairs-Downstairs

_Thanks to Sunflower Fran3759 for the fast edit. As always, I tweaked and twirled it a bit, so all mistakes you spy are mine and mine alone!_

_Oh, and before I forget … I still do not own it. Never have. Never will._

Chapter Two

Upstairs-Downstairs

"So, um, what's the story on the new tenant?" I casually asked Mrs. Cope the next afternoon as I set up the bar. I had just returned from the bank, where I was told that the loan for the renovation on the kitchen had been pre-approved and would likely go through in a week or so.

Shelly Cope looked up at me from the barstool where she sat perched scrolling through her massive rolodex of recipes and whatnots. I like to tease her unmercifully about the archaic index system she uses to store her hundreds of recipesbut she always laughs it off, saying," Some of these recipes are older than my great Nana, Teddy my boy, it's not likely they'd sit well with her if I used some kind of fancy schmancy, computer programs. Look…here's a recipe for her Mulligatawny Stew that she brought over from Scotland back in 1872. There's even a small brown stain onit! I wouldn't want to jinx it **…** it's a favorite in the cold weather." I started to rib her again about her old-fashioned system, but she looked up at my question about the tenant with a small frown just under her wire-rimmed nose. I shot up an eyebrow; Shelly Cope rarely frowned.

"Now you listen up Edward Anthony, and you listen good … you put me in charge of dealing with your father's, God rest his soul, old quarters, and I did just as you asked. The poor lamb arrived in the dark, soaking wet, with only a small suitcase and the clothes on her back. She went directly upstairs after she paid me the first and the last month's rent in cash. The only thing she requested was to be left alone in peace. I took the money and had her sign the lease. She also gave me a small list for her groceries. I told her that would be no problem at all for me to do since I do the marketing for you several times a week. She offered to pay me for this service but I told her that I didn't want to take her money, although later on we might work out some kind of a deal if she decided to throw a big party or does any kind of entertainment."

"Oh, okay…It's just that I heard her, well, um, never mind…" I trailed off. For some odd inexplicable reason I didn't want to tell Mrs. C that the tenant was crying; I felt oddly protective about accidently witnessing her emotional breakdown on the rooftop. I shifted my feet a few times and cleared my throat; _protective?_ What the f-? I don't even know this girl and from the sounds of her wailing last night I don't think I want to; she sounds way too intense for a simple guy like me. Besides, if I start getting involved in her personal drama now, she's likely to get up all in MY business and I don't want, need, or desire that in any size, shape, or form. Not that I've got any "business" to get up into…I know I'm a boring guy, but still.

"Look Edward, I know you're curious about her **…** it's written all over your face. I can't say that I blame you since her apartment is next to yours and all. But I don't think this girl is going to be a problem for you as far as invading your privacy, if that's what you're afraid of. I suspect from the hurried way she brought her belongings inside, that she wants to be left alone."

So that's exactly what I did. Monday faded into Tuesday and by Wednesday it might have been Friday for all I knew. Business had never been better**,** and now, with the promise of a loan for the new kitchen on the horizon, I became busier than ever trying to develop a design with a local contractor. The contractor, Paul, is the uncle of Emmett McCarty, my old pal from childhood and beyond.

While Paul and I perched on the barstools overlooking his design for the kitchen I casually asked him how Emmet was doing. He looked over at me fiddling with his plans that were spread out in front of us and let out a big sigh. It appeared that he was taking a moment to gather his thoughts because he didn't speak up right away. Instead**,** he rubbed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. Then he gave me a contemplative look and turned in his stool to address my question.

"Eh…I dunno what to tell ya, Edward. I mean, on the surface the kid looks like he's got the world by its tail. He's got a great practice from what I've heard. The biggest house you've ever seen outside of maybe Chatham. He's a member of some kind of ritzy country club; travels a lot, too. He just got back a couple of weeks ago from a trip to Europe **…** bought me a big-ass stein from somewhere in Germany. But **…**" He trailed off rubbing the back of his neck.

"What?" I asked. Paul looked down at his hands and let out a big sigh.

"He's not happy," he finally admitted.

"Why?" I asked simply. I mean**,** from the sounds of it Emmett had it made in the damn shade. What the hell more does he need? Unless…

"Meh … I probably shouldn't say anything **…** it's really not my place." He looked at me dead in the eyes as if looking for a reason to give me an answer. I understood it immediately, Emmett and I were no longer friends. Sure we still chatted occasionally if he happened to be in the area, but that wasn't often. Still, Paul must have seen something in them because he stopped playing with the plans and raised his eyebrow.

"What do you know about the wife?"

"Rosalie? Um **…** she seems alright. I don't really know her all that well; we only met a handful of times. She's beautiful, I guess.

"Yeah she's a real beauty alright. She found out last month that she's in the family way, told Emmett she didn't want a kid and left his ass before the piss was dry on the stick," he said in disgust. "Can you imagine any woman doing something like that? I mean…okay…apparently she had told him before they got married that kids weren't going to be a part of her master plan. But come on **…** shit happens and you learn to deal with it, right?

"What do you mean, "She took off?"

"Just what it sounds like; the bitch told him that she needed time to think, grabbed up a few bags, stuffed them with her big name clothes, plucked the keys to her Merc and went home to Mama.

"Is she … um, I mean you don't think she's going to **…**" I trailed off, unsure of how to word my question.

"Get rid of it?" Paul asked with a knowing look. I nodded my head in agreement. If this was the case, then the shit is really gonna hit the fucking fan when Old Lady Souza finds out. I mean the woman is a devout catholic, so the _A word_ isn't even in her radar. What _is_ in her radar is a shrine of Our Lady of the Bleeding Ovaries at her cash register.

Wow.

"Eh…it's hard to say what she'll do. I dunno her all that well and for all I know she's only planning on taking some time to come to terms with everything. I hope for her sake that's what she's doing. Cuz I gotta tell ya kid, if my old lady finds out that she got rid of a Souza, she'll be on her ass like stink on shit. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"So what's Emmett planning to do?"

"Oh Gawd … I dunno. I talked to him last night and he was beside himself. He was talking crazy… saying he never wanted this shitastic life to begin with and that it was all her idea to have that fancy life in Greenwich. Said all he ever wanted was a simple practice right here on the Cape."

Well, in retrospect I guess that was true; I remember when he and I were making plans to go off and study law together; Emmett told me then that he didn't want to stay in a big city for long. In fact, we had a lot of arguments about it. But once we got our acceptance letters he caught my enthusiasm and together we started laying the groundwork for our future, a future that was set in Boston or NYC. But in the back of my mind I knew that Emmett only wanted that life because I did. Looks like neither one of us ended up with what we wanted.

"Teddy, what happened to that bag of Doritos and the package of Ring-Dings I had on the counter? Those aren't yours; I picked them up for the girl." I looked up to see the wrath of Shelly Cope bearing down at me.

Paul got up and folded his plans away carefully and gave me a little wink to signify that the meeting was over. "I'll see ya next week, Kid." I thanked him for his help and turned my attention to Mrs. C who was drumming her fingers impatiently on the bar.

"I brought them upstairs to my place; I thought maybe you were buying me a treat."

"A treat? I've never known you to eat that junk," she said. It's true; after Pop cashed them in so young I am careful about the food I put into my body. Don't get me wrong; I eat plenty. I'm not some kind of fanatic **…** I even eat meat. But I do watch the fat intake and my cholesterol. And the biggest change I made was giving up smoking, which, if I am to be honest was more difficult than cutting out snacks. But I did it. The fact that both of my parents smoked and both died at a young age had factored in of course. But Carlisle assures me that even though my family medical history suggests that I need to be mindful, my own health is for now, excellent. He does caution me to get away from the bar more often and get some fresh air, which is why I get coverage for the bar on Sundays and hit the gym. I also try to go out for a run on the beach every day in the good weather. And when Tyler was still alive we used to go sailing; something I truly loved, although I admit that I haven't sailed since he died last year. A feeling of unease swept over me as I recalled that his boat, _Man Trouble_, has been sitting covered and largely ignored by yours truly ever since. Although I feel bad about it, I still don't know if I'm ready to deal with that again. Maybe I should think about selling it. But that thought depressed me, so I put it away with the bar nuts and climbed upstairs to get Mrs. C the bag of goodies for the food junkie, who apparently likes to stuff her face with grease and sugar.

I entered my apartment and headed over to the pantry where I grabbed the snacks. Freaking Ring-Dings …who over the age of twelve eats this crap? I pondered to myself, as I snagged a plum out of the fruit bowl and took a bite. The juice from the fruit ran down my chin and I swiped it away and licked it off my fingers. Those plums were the biggest and juiciest plums I've had in years, and even though they're my favorite fruit, I decided to make some sort of effort to be neighborly, so I plucked the last plum out of the fruit bowl and tossed it in the bag. In an impulsive move, I marched over to the door that separates our apartment from the inside and knocked on it gently. May as well get this shit over with and introduce myself, I figured.

The door rattled a bit when I knocked. Pop had put this door in himself when he moved his personal stuff next door. It isn't very sturdy and probably wouldn't meet code; Pop was no carpenter. It has a fairly long chain lock at the top and when the door is open it's possible to pass a few items through them. I used to love to roll my Hot Wheels into Pop's pad. Occasionally Pop would roll them back. We had a little game going to see how many cars we could shoot through the doorway and clear into our bedrooms, which were directly opposite from each other.

Although I thought I heard a little gasp and then some scuffling, no one came to the door**. **Just as well, I thought to myself in relief. Shrugging my shoulders, I trekked back out into the hall, dropped the bag off in front of her door, and then went back downstairs. It probably wasn't a good idea to knock on her door from the inside of my apartment anyway; it might have even freaked her out a bit. Maybe when Paul comes to start on the kitchen next week I'll have him take a look at the door and see if he can wall it up. I don't need a door that serves no useful purpose anyway and I am sure as hell the new tenant isn't going to want to play wheelies with me on my down time.

Anyway, that all happened this afternoon. The bars been in full swing for hours now and I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that being closed earlier in the week made the patrons extra thirsty. If business continues to be this good it might not take as long to pay off the loan as I originally thought.

It's a damn**,** busy night at The Swan Dive but at least there's no real drama to speak of, which is always a good thing in my book. I see a couple of the girls from last week's bachelorette party that went awry and I walk over to them to see how Miss Pukey Pants made out. They laugh their asses off when I ask them if she had a big head the next morning.

"The better question is whether Tripp had a _big head_ after the party, and if she took care of it," jokes the redheaded beanpole. What was her nickname? Bootsie?

"Don't be a pig, Bitsy," laughs the chick with the massive thighs_. Bitsy_ … how the hell could I have forgotten that one? The thigh master lets out another chuckle and I give her a smile. I can't help staring at those legs; tonight they are encased in a pair of pink and green plaid Bermuda shorts. I notice when she laughs the muscles in her calves ripple. I let out a small shudder; the phrase _bone crusher_ comes to mind. I mentally chastise myself for being such a mean asshole … she seems like a nice girl.

I exchange a little more banter with the girls and then speak to Mike for awhile to discuss the changes in our schedule once construction of the new kitchen commences. After a bit, I head into my small office and call Carlisle to let him know about the bank's loan approval. That call lasts close to thirty minutes since Alice answered the phone before Esme got to it and let me tell you, when you get on the horn with Alice it's going to be _a while._ The kid can chew the ear off of a brass monkey. Which is odd because she doesn't say much of anything when she is with people.

I'm exhausted by the time Carlisle manages to pluck the phone out of her hands. I hear him take the phone away from her and tell her to let go and to take her twirling ass off to bed before he stills her like a spinning top and does it for her. "And Jesus, Alice …please stop yelling. Christ … if you ever lose your voice you'll find it in my ear." I crack up over this because I know for a fact Esme is giving him the stink eye and he'll probably get an earful when he gets off the phone. But this is what I love the most about him; he's a natural father, and even though his kid has autism he treats her like he would any other child who had stepped his last nerve.

I hope if I ever have kids that I can be half the dad that he is. Not that that's ever likely to happen on account of the fact that I'm twenty-nine years old and haven't been on a date with anyone besides Mrs. C in the past two years. Yeah …ya just gotta love that Michael Buble. The things I do for that woman.

I'm so beat by the time I head upstairs that I'm stripping my clothes off as I'm walking through the door. I go into the bathroom and take a shower in the dark because I don't want to let any light inside my head when I'm all sleepy and shit. I've never been what you would call a good sleeper, so I sometimes have to pop an Ambein before I head off to bed. I don't do them too often because I don't really trust that stuff and I have issues about making an ass of myself and winding up on channel Six news. But tonight I decide to risk it, so I take half a pill after I've brushed my teeth.

I trudge into the bedroom and I am about to crawl in bed when my bare foot steps on something round and soft. I let out a small girly scream when I feel something ooze between my toes and then feel the crunch of something hard; _what in the fucking hell?_ I'm almost afraid to turn the lights on **…** please dear God; do NOT let this be a mouse or anything else that has a pulse … I sit gingerly on the side of the bed and turn on the lamp. I blink twice when I see what appears to be flesh and blood between my toes. Ugh. My stomach churns as I reach for the tissues and begin peeling it off.

_What the …_ I bring it up closer to my face and examine it more clearly. I blink again and stifle a laugh at myself. No way …

It's not a mouse.

It's a plum_._

**A/N: Okay, so I could write a dissertation about all the reasons I haven't updated this story since, what, January? The truth is it's been a difficult spring and every time I thought it would ease up…well, it didn't. I also discovered that I cannot write two stories at the same time. I don't know how those authors juggle several or more stories at once. My two Edward's voices kept getting me confused and I found that they were creeping into the tone of both stories. Anyway, even though Positions, Inc has a stronger following it was THIS Edward who demanded his story be told first. So that is what I am going to do. PINC will be put on hiatus until this one is complete. I promise it will return and I am NOT going to take it down, either.**

**Thank you so much for the love the first chapter received. I have been asked if this story will only be told in Edward's POV. My outline says it will be, but **_**the girl next door**_** may have other ideas, so we'll see. I learned a long time ago that characters often have a mind of their own and also that my muse is one fickle bitch who leaves me without warning. She just showed up with her tail tucked between her legs, and a sheepish, if somewhat, shit eating grin, on her face this morning. That's why you got this update at last!**

**Big thanks to sunflowerfran3759 for her super quick beta work … Guess what Fran … I never knew ellipses had to have that kind of spacing. Thanks for the teachable moment, girl!**

*****Ring Dings **was a product made by the Drake company; a division of mascot was a smiling duck holding a spoon and wearing a chef's hat and neckerchief. Drake's ceased operations in November 2012, when Hostess Brands shut down all its plants. RIP Twinkies and Ring Dings. When this story began the company was still in existence. And in _my_ world it still is!


	3. Chapter 3: Plum Tired

A Crack in the Door

Chapter Three

Plum Tired

"I'll have a an Alligator Pee," said a young woman, who looked so young when she came in solo that I had Mike ID her the second her bubblegum, pink toes nudged the bar door open at seven o'clock.

"_A _what?" I asked, with a smirk. I knew right away what she was asking for the second her soft, lilting words introduced themselves to my ears; and lilt they did. This chick had to be from somewhere down South; her drawl was so thick.

"Aw, please don't make me say it," she said with embarrassment. I watched the blush flood her face and found myself laughing; if the word piss caused her to flush then maybe she really is too young to be drinking. Still, Mike is somewhat of an expert at spotting fake IDs so I decided to cut her some slack and turned my back to get the ingredients ready for mixing. An Alligator Piss … talk about a plum blower's delight. At least that's what my old man would have said. My father had expressions for all kinds of things and I think that's one of the reasons The Swan Dive became a popular watering hole back in the early eighties when he first opened the joint. People would come in to talk with their friends but they often stayed just to listen to Pop talk. He was a lot of fun.

This particular expression made me think back to last night's fiasco, which prominently featured a plum. I chuckled to myself while I mixed the cocktail. I'd been thinking about that damn plum all morning long. I went over and over the possibilities; maybe I dropped one and it rolled in my bedroom? Nope, I knew that I hadn't. There was really only one possibility: my new, faceless tenant had rolled it back through the crack between our doors. Talk about an ingrate! I loved those plums. She could at least have had the decency to dispose of it discretely if she didn't want it.

Unless … maybe … she was being … playful?

Nah … a girl who uttered mournful cries that sounded like they came from the bowels of despair, isn't gonna be the type to play cat and mouse games.

And speaking of mice … If that thing on my foot had been a mouse I would have had a stroke, and I would have killed Jenks for missing it.

I wondered where that lazy-ass cat has been, anyway. As if he heard my thoughts, I felt him rub his fat torso against my ankle. I bent down for a second and gave him a bit of a rub. I'm not a big fan of cats in general; in fact, I really don't like them much at all. To me they're way too standoffish and they only want you on their terms. I shared this thought with Mrs. Cope once and she gave me a rather pointed look and remarked "That sounds a lot like you, Teddy. All creatures deserve to love and be loved, regardless of their personalities. I think you and Jenks are two of a kind." I remember feeling vaguely insulted at the time, but there was truth in her words, so even if they stung, I knew she was right. I mean, I'm not a moron, I know that I give the impression that I'm a bit of a loner. But then I've had reason to be. As I've said before, I don't need a psychologist to tell me the reasons I feel like I do or why I don't interact with others. I work in a bar … if there is one thing I do know, it's people. Most barkeeps are amateur shrinks, it comes with the territory.

I let out a small sigh and rinsed my hands before handing the Southern Belle her Alligator Pee. I served it to her with a flourish, and she clapped her hands in delight when she took her first sip. I'd been about to ask her where she was from, when I stopped myself. That kind of question might give the implication that I'm interested in her. And while she was a pretty blonde with the biggest, green eyes I'd seen in a long time, I knew straight off that she was a tourist. I don't ever want to get mixed up with tourists; they never stay more than a summer and I'm done with saying my good byes to people I care about.

On Cape Cod there are two bridges, The Bourne and the Sagamore. My father used to say that one was for coming and the other was for going. But to me they're both the same, because sooner or later everyone chooses the one that takes them back home to their real lives the quickest. People love to get away to the Cape, but they also love to get away from the Cape … once they've had their fill of salt water taffy, fried clams and endless bowls of clam chowder that is. Personally I hate these bridges; they serve as a visual reminder that everything on the Cape is temporary and fleeting.

Cape Cod isn't for everyone. Yes, it is a great place to visit if you like imagining you're JFK for a day and go out sailing all morning and then come home to a clam bake on the beach at night. But for those of us who live here, it isn't a place to buy overpriced T- Shirts and ridiculously priced, lobster meat, stuffed inside a fifty cent, hotdog bun. It's our home.

And home, especially on a cold and bleak January day, can be like a visit to Hell, let me tell you. Between the piercing winds and the heavy snows, well, it's not an easy life. We have our share of hurricanes, fogs, blizzards, and that particularly cruel bitch, The Nor-Easter. Is it any wonder that so many people get the hell out and move to Florida as soon as Uncle Sam declares them fuckin old enough to do what they want? No, it's not, especially when you've had to attend the funeral of a forty year old man who died from a heart attack while shoveling out his driveway. You'd be amazed at how many of those I've been to over the years.

I caught myself in the mirror over the bar and once again noticed my face. Today it looks maudlin rather than lonely. I'm not a moody bugger but I do admit I am a thinker and my thoughts aren't always pleasant ones. But really, who the hell is happy all the time, anyway? Unless they're taking a pill that makes them not give a rat's ass about anything.

Look, I'm not standing around shuffling my feet and being broody all the live, long day. As a rule, I don't have the luxury of time for that type of introspection. I guess maybe the reason why I've been extra chatty in my head these days has more to do with turning twenty-nine. Plus it's summer, which for me is associated with death; my folks and Tyler all died in the summertime. For me, summer is my winter; it's a time to die. Who in the fuck wouldn't look maudlin?

Freaking_ maudlin_ … where is that word coming from anyway? I dunno. I think I'm reading way too many of Angela's book of the month club novels. I'd better man up and buy myself a subscription to Sports Illustrated before I sprout ovaries and give birth in the ladiesroom.

"Edward?" My thoughts are halted by the abrupt sound of Mr's Copes use of my first name. She always calls me Teddy and rarely ever calls me by my given name. She's the only one who does, and even though I grimace; I've grown accustomed to it. In fact, although I'd never admit it to her, I like it. It makes me feel like I'm still a kid who has his whole life spread out before him or something. I look up at her sharply, and then in alarm; her face is red as a beet and tears are forming in her eye ducts.

"I've just had a call from one of my neighbors; Harold collapsed in the front yard about thirty minutes ago. They think he had a stroke."

Harold is Mrs. Cope's lover. They've been in love since childhood. They never married because Harold's mother was a shrew, old biddy, who controlled her son with a sharp tug of her apron strings and a series of mysterious maladies that were never officially diagnosed. So in a fit of desperation,Shelly McNally did what all young women of a certain age did back in those days to seek revenge; she married somebody else. The marriage lasted less than a year and the only thing she took away from it was the name Cope, and a house that overlooks a large and prosperous, cranberry bog. In fact it was the bog that caused the rift between her and her husband. He made a fortune selling the bog to Ocean Spray and then ran off with the CEO's daughter.

Being a Catholic, Mrs. C didn't divorce him. I once asked her about Mr. C and whatever happened to him. She told me he died about ten years after he ran away from home. Naturally, I then asked why she didn't marry Harold; by then his mother had given up the ghost, so he was free to do as he pleased. She looked at me with her arched, red brow and chuckled; "Now why on earth would I want to do that? I already had a husband, Teddy. I figured it was time for me to take on a lover. So I did. Harold and I began seeing each other before the dust settled on the driveway after Mr. C left. It worked well for us then and it works well for us now. A lover takes you out for chicken; he doesn't come home and say, chicken again? Besides, with Harold … well, I never order chicken. I always order steak; rare, just like me. Plus if he became my husband then we probably wouldn't have sex anymore. Harold is very passionate as a lover and I'd like to keep him that way." She laughed at my gaping pie hole and handed me a piece of ice to extinguish the blush that made my cheeks hot and my ears burn. I never asked her much about her personal life after that. But I knew that Harold was a big part of her world; maybe not all of it, but he orbited around her world every day. She would be lost without him.

I helped her get her things together, and then I drove her over to Cape Cod Community Hospital, where I ran into an old buddy of mine, Pete. Pete and I went to high school together. We weren't best friends; aside from Tyler, Emmett was the only one who held that title until he left me for his craptastic life. But Pete was a stand-up guy, a volunteer firefighter and an EMT. He gave me the low down on Harold's condition; apparently he'd been a first responder when Harold's neighbor made the call to 911.

"It doesn't look too good, Edward. He barely had a pulse when I brought him in. I dunno if he's going to make it, to be honest." I gulped then and my own eyes began to water, just a little. Mrs. C wasn't going to be happy about this at all, and if I had to wager a guess, I'd bet she was in the ER telling the doctors, nurses, and God himself, the very same thing. That thought made me smile; if anyone could make Harold pull through a stroke, it would be Shelly Cope. The woman did not take no for an answer. As if to support my belief I overheard her strident voice.

"Do NOT tell me to have a seat young woman. I am certainly not about to sit on my duff when my man is struggling to keep his pulse. Now then, as soon as you've settled him into his room I strongly suggest that you get on the phone with housekeeping and order me a cot. Because I am not going anywhere until Harold is well enough for me to bring him home. Now then, where is he? I want to see him myself. And do not, I repeat, do NOT tell me that I am not his family. I am his common law wife for all intents and purposes, and if I have anything to say about it I'll be happy to take the common law out of the equation as soon as he is well enough to stand up before the priest and nod his vows. Is that understood?"

Pete looked over at me with a raised eyebrow and I found myself laughing outright. I guess Mrs. C was going to allow Harold to become her 'Chicken Again' after all.

Three hours and forty minutes later, I came back to the bar exhausted, but hopeful. Harold not only maintained his pulse, he stabilized as soon as he saw his Shelly-Girl. I left them long enough to go to Mrs. C's house and get her overnight bag which she kept packed next to her bed in case she ever needed to go to the hospital. Well, I guess she finally had a reason to use it, as she is, in fact, in the hospital. I pity the nurses who try to send her packing, that's for damn sure.

When I returned to the hospital Harold was already in his room and tucked in "tight as a bug," according to Mrs. C. Her cot was already set up next to his bed and I noticed that her knitting bag was already out, and acrossword puzzle was lying next to it, just waiting to be solved. Shelly Cope never went anywhere without her knitting and her crossword puzzles. She also never slept without her own pillows, and I'd been instructed to bring those along with her bag. I also grabbed her mother's, potted palm, that she didn't trust to be watered by anyone but herself. I babysat it for her once when she visited her sister in Oklahoma and she cried for a week when she returned and saw its condition. She told me I had a brown thumb. After that, if she had to go away for any length of time, she took it with her.

"Oh Teddy, good, you're back. Thank you for bringing me my mother's palm, I know I didn't tell you to do that and it means so much to me that you did. You're a sweet, thoughtful boy and don't let anyone, especially yourself, try to tell you otherwise. Now sit down next to me for a spell because I've a long, honey-do list and I do not have all night and I know you need to get back to the bar."

By this time I was stupid tired; I hadn't slept much at all the night before and I'd been busy all afternoon at the bar. Plus my head wasn't giving me any relief either; it seemed like I just couldn't stop myself from thinking about shit anymore. I was always good at tucking thoughts away, but it seems like the door to my brain just won't close tight. I'll have to work on that, I thought to myself. Maybe, tomorrow.

She began by outlining all her daily tasks; Christ on a crutch, I had no idea she did half the shit she does. "And you don't need to worry about the kitchen because we were planning to close it down next week anyway, while it's under construction. If you want to put out something more than beer nuts and pretzels then get Mrs. McCarty to assist you; she's more than willing to help out. I spoke to her on the phone when you left. She told me that Emmett's back in town, too. I don't know why, something to do with his wife. I suspect the poor child might be pregnant and is unsure of her feelings, but it's just a hunch. I don't think she's a bad girl, just a confused girl. I met her parents at the wedding and they nearly broke my heart at the cold way they conducted themselves. Anyway, I don't really know anything concrete, Maggie wouldn't tell me anything and I didn't want to pry, but I do know that Emmett is back and that she is willing to help if you need her. I'll be bound if Emmett doesn't show up himself before the weeks out looking to help, too. He was always a dear boy."

I looked at her in amazement; how does this woman know these things? I know for a fact that she wasn't within earshot when Emmett's uncle gave me the details on his and Rosalie's situation.

Weird.

"And now I want to talk to you about Marie."

_Marie? Who on earth is Marie?_

"The girl who lives next door to you Teddy, don't be daft. Her name is Marie. Well, that's what she told me on the phone anyway. I suspect that's not her real name. I got the feeling that she was using an alias."

_What?_

"Oh quit being so dramatic, Teddy, it doesn't suit you. Anyway, I didn't say Marie wasn't her name, only which I don't think it's what she normally goes by, since she hesitated when she gave it to me. For all I know she might be a writer and it's her pen name or something like that. In any case, she seemed harmless enough, of course I didn't really get a chance to see much of her, more like the back of her head as she whizzed past me the night she arrived."

_Huh?_

"I told you she paid me the money upfront. Well, I may have lied. She spoke to me on the phone and sent me the envelope by FedEx the same day, in cash. Don't worry; I put it right in the bank as soon as it arrived."

_She sent in three months rent by FedEx? In … cash?_

"Oh for heaven's sakes, Edward, get that look off your face. You need to open your mind as well as your heart. I know on the surface how it sounds, I wasn't born in a cabbage patch you know. But I trust this girl for some reason and I think you should do the same. Now then, here is her shopping list with a few notes that I made in the margin. Just leave them in the hall and knock on the door three times to let her know they've arrived.

_Knock three times? And tell her what, Mugsys here, or worse, Tony Orlando? _

"Listen Mrs. C …Please don't get me wrong, I don't need to know this girl, but I do need to know she isn't going to burn the joint down or steal me blind in the night. I mean, I trust you and all, but didn't you at least check on her references before you let her rent Pop's room? I mean, I'm sorry, but this chick is creepy. You haven't seen her and neither has anyone else from what I've gathered.

I heard her crying last Sunday on the porch, and last night she nearly gave me a god damn heart attack when she rolled the plum I gave her back into my apartment, through the opening of the door. And then I stepped on it and screamed like a five year old girl because I thought it was a damn mouse and that Jenks had to be dead, because he's never let a mouse upstairs before. Do you know what that did to me? A dead mouse, a dead cat, a crying girl and a squashed plum on the bottom of my foot. I don't need that kind of drama in my life, I can tell you that right now."

"Edward!"

"What?"

"First of all, do not take the Lord's name in vain. Not in front of me or in back of me. Is that understood?"

"Yes Ma'am," I nod my head in agreement. I must be overwrought; I've never sworn in front of Mrs. Cope before. I don't swear much out loud to begin with, only in my head.

"And second of all Teddy, and even more importantly …" she says rounding her shoulders and placing her hands on her hips. "A big dose of drama is _exactly_ what you need. Now go home and get some sleep. And stop blathering about plums and dead cats and mice; I'd like to get some sleep myself. Dead plums … you need to have your head examined."

So that's exactly what I did.

It's now gone past midnight and after I checked out the bar and made sure Mike handled the receipts and made the deposit, I trudge my weary ass up the stairs. I strain my ears at her door but all is quiet and still as a, well, mouse.

I open the door to my apartment and begin my nightly ritual. I think I'll take a whole Ambein tonight and maybe chase it with a Stella. Hell, the way I feel right now I think I'll skip the pill and just have a few shots of Patron and call it a night.

But of course I don't do any of those things because when I get out of the shower I hear a cry from the room next door that make my heart stop like it just had a brake job. I throw on an old pair of Umbros that I've had for at least a decade or more and a gray t-shirt that's even older, and stand there listening to her cry, feeling helpless. No one should cry like that; not ever.

Unable to take it anymore, I force myself to exit the bathroom.

I go over to the door hesitantly, and knock three times. No one answers, but the crying stops. I know she can hear me the same way I can hear her silence. I know she is sitting next to the door afraid to move. I'm tempted to turn the knob and call out to her, just to make sure she's okay.

But I don't.

Instead, I sit down on the floor next to the door and begin to talk. I tell her about my day and about Mrs. Cope and Harold. My mouth isn't in synch with my head anymore and my inner thoughts begin to pour out. I tell her things I've never told anyone. I know she won't answer me back and she doesn't. I'm tired and fucking lonely. She doesn't know me and I don't know her.

I'm sorry she doesn't like plums, I say to the door. I know she's sad, I say stupidly. I tell her I get sad too. I tell her about my mother and Pop and the way he always made everyone laugh and how much it hurt me when he moved into the apartment next door and left me all alone. I tell her about my mother's perfume.

The next morning, when I wake up stiff and sore, I wonder if it had all been an Ambein, induced dream. That's when I notice a napkin with a Ring Ding carefully wrapped in its depth. I pick it up and contemplate rolling it back to her. But I don't. I walk over to the fridge, poor myself a glass of milk, and eat it over the sink.

It's hands down the best thing I've ever had.

**ACITD**

**A/N: Thank you all for reading! A shout out to sunflowerfran3759 for her excellent editing! I would also like to thank my ADF buddy, Dovelove1097, for pre-reading. It's so nice to have good people supporting me as a writer and for mentioning this story. **

**See you soon!**

**Jayne xo**


	4. Chapter 4: Really Good

A Crack in the Door

Chapter Four:

Really Good

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, but I do own seven opened jars of maraschino cherries. I have no idea why. Shirley Temples, anyone?**

"Edward, there's someone here to see you. Is it okay if he comes in?"

I looked up a little startled from my computer. I was supposed to be looking at appliances for the new kitchen, but instead found myself lost in thought. Last night was one of the strangest nights I experienced, in well, my entire existence. I'm not someone who bares his damn soul through a crack in the door. I'm the guy who listens, not the one who tells all. I know on some level I should feel at the very least, embarrassed, by my emotional diarrhea, but I don't. Instead, I feel free**,** like a burden I've been carrying around my back is suddenly lighter. Not completely gone, but definitely redistributed. The weird part was that even though she never said a word, I knew she was listening the whole time. I was very much aware of her presence; there was a quiet energy that emanated between us. And then this morning when I'd woken up stiff and sore in front of the door I'd wondered if it had somehow all been part of a dream. But I knew it hadn't; the taste of the Ring Ding was still on my tongue.

"Edward?" Angela's soft voice prompted. I glanced up to see Angela's face morphing into a big grin, and when I asked who it is, and she replied, "It's Emmett." I nodded my head eagerly; I haven't seen Emmett in months, maybe even a year. Yeah, it's been a year; he'd come out for Tyler's funeral. I remember being shocked to see him attend the small service we'd had at the bar, I mean it wasn't like they knew each other really well, but Emmett was undaunted by that technicality because he came just the same. I'm not sure I even remembered to thank him for that. I probably hadn't; Tyler's death had undoubtedly affected me and my manners.

"Hey, Red … how's it going?" Emmett's deep voice boomed inside my doorway. I got up and moved quickly around my desk to shake his hand. But in typical Emmett fashion he skirted around my outstretched claw and wrapped his beefyarm around my neck and drew me into his hug.

Cape Codder's are often known to be rather reserved when it comes to being demonstrative. But Emmett must have skimmed the chapter on _How to Freeze Ice Cubes off Your Neighbor's Asses by Giving Them the Cold Shoulder_ in 'The Idiots Guide to being a New Englander'. Maybe this is in part due to his mother's Portuguese roots; I've noticed how huggy-feely his family is in that department. But when I looked into his brown eyes all I saw was honesty, warmth, and affection in his penetrating stare. It's the kind of look that only comes from someone who genuinely knows a person and is accessing their well-being long before they've had a chance to reply. And I know that this is all _Emmett_; not guides or DNA. He is, and always has been, the most genuine guy I've ever known.

"I'm good, man, really good," I lied_._ The truth is I haven't been really good in a long time. I mean, it's not like I'm falling apart or anything, but to describe the way I've been since Tyler died last summer as _really good_, would be somewhat of a stretch. Although, after last night … well as I said a moment ago, I felt different; like someone who isn't completely well, but who is on the mend.

"Well, I call bull-shit on your being, _'really good,'_ but I think you're on the mend, Buddy-boy."

And my point was made.

"So," I said as we started walking over to the bar, "How's things with you Em?" He took a seat at stool number four, which was the same stool he sat in as a kid when we did our homework or projects. I went around behind the bar, removed two mugs from the cooler, and drew us each a Guinness. Emmett is half Irish, and Guinness is mother's milk to him. I actually prefer a less hoppy brew, but I still needed to change the keg, and I wanted to hear if he'd tell me the truth.

He did.

"… So, anyway, that's about it in a nutshell. My life grew out of control, and even though I made a shit-ton of money in a very short time, well, yeah." He finished off his Wikipedia bio with a long pull on his brew and a big sigh. I came back from behind the bar and sat down beside him and listened. I'm good at listening; a good barkeep always knows to keep his ears and the tab open, and his mouth firmly closed.

"So, what … you mean you just closed up shop and left? What about your clients and cases? I was genuinely puzzled; Emmett might be a little raw right now but for him to simply give up, and shirk his responsibilities doesn't sound at all like him to me.

"Nah, I didn't just up and leave. But I did hang my Gone Fishing sign on the door," he joked. I looked at him then, in an assessment of my own, and said; "bull-shit." He laughed then, and I saw his eyes twinkle just a tad. I watched as the twinkle faded faster than a tan in October and he shook his head hard.

"I brought my cases with me, Red. That's what iPads and iPhones are for, right? But to answer your question, I haven't made any decisions just yet. I gave Rosalie's mother my information, and we'll see what, if anything, she decides to do with it. I'm staying at my vovó's house for the time being. But I was wondering …"

I stared at him with a raised eyebrow unsure of his question.

"Well, I wondered if maybe I might be able to rent Pop's old place for a little while. I tried to call Mrs. C and ask her about it but then my mother told me about Harold, so …." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Ah geeze, Em … I wish I'd known. Mrs. C actually rented it out last week to some woman." But even as the words came out of my mouth I knew they were false; much as I loved Emmett I knew that I didn't want anyone but her in Pop's place.

Wow.

Where the hell did that come from?

I don't even know this chick, and Em had been my best friend for years; I should march my ass upstairs right now and tell her to pack her bags so he could move right in. But I didn't. Instead I gave Em an uncertain smile, and he responded in kind.

"Don't worry about it Red, it was probably a stupid idea anyhow. I mean if Rosie does decide to come to her senses and all, well, it would just be a temporary thing. Besides, vovó has the finished cellar, and it's a walk-out, so at least I've got privacy and all. It would have been fun, though, I mean having you right next door. We could have shared sob stories and sweaters, and sung Taylor Swift songs," he joked. I let out a big laugh at that; sweaters and Taylor Swift ...

Where does he come up with this stuff anyway?

"But, hey …if you do need some space you can always shack up with me if you need to." I thought about last night and my back-door date with the girl who may or may not be truly named Marie, and hoped suddenly that he wouldn't.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I wondered.

This is my friend … and I shouldn't even be thinking about Ring-Dings and a girl with anguished cries.

"What's up with you, Edward?" Emmett asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused. "We've been catching up here for over an hour. I already told you I was good."

Em gave me a once over and took another swig of his Guinness. "Yeah, I know what you said. You're good, really good. But even though I called bull-shit on that I still get the feeling there's something going on that just might be really good; maybe not today, but soon." He continued sipping his beer and gave me a side eye.

Damn, I always knew Emmett would have made a better cop than a lawyer. Must be the Irish in him, I thought to myself. Huh. I honestly have to stop being such a judgmental, sarcastic and stereotypical thinking prick. I needed to work on that. Well, maybe tomorrow. I stood up and walked in back of the bar and began to fill the bowls with nuts and pretzels. I tried to look casual, but as always, I felt my ears grow warm, and my neck itched. I scratched it roughly and began slicing oranges and lemons in an effort to appear busy.

"Aw, that's it!" He cried out loud snapping his big fingers in glee. "Young Eddie has finally got himselfa girl. Hah! Who is she anyway; someone we went to school with?" I started to open my mouth to deny it and then closed it because the contradiction was clogged in my throat or something. Nothing came out at all except maybe a little bit of phlegm, which I swallowed.

What in the fuck is wrong with me? I asked myself.

"Oh Jesus. Tell me it's not an out-of-towner, Edward. Oh Christ, it is! You've fallen in love with a _tourist?"_ He teased.

"There isn't any girl, Em, I haven't met anyone." Well, at least part of that sentence was true; we hadn't met officially. I glanced down at my hands and flexed my fingers a few times. I walked over to the counter and opened a jar of cherries and put them in the little plastic serving tray alongside the cut-up orange rinds and pearl onions. I rarely ever make Gimlet's, so I don't use the onions much, but Angela told me there's a Shriners' convention in town, so I doubled up on them just to be sure.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. But listen, if you ever want to talk about it remember my offer to swap sob stories and Taylor Swift is still on. Aw hell, maybe we'll even toss in a little Bruno Mars … he seems to understand love gone wrong. Maybe I can track him down through his attorney, and he can join us in our pity party; Rosie has tickets to go see his sad ass in Boston next month, so he's gonna be in the area. I rolled my eyes at his inane comments, and we said our goodbyes. Em promised his mother he'd relieve Old Lady Souza at the register tonight, and I wanted to go visit Harold and Mrs. C before the bar got too busy for me to leave.

We parted ways, and now thirty minutes later, I'm heading back upstairs so I can grab a quick shower and change. While I'm removing the heat and grime from my morning under the cool spray of water, I find myself heating up again as my mind begins to drift and conjures up images of the girl next door. Although I hadn't actually seen her clearly, I remember that her hair was long and dark as it trailed in the humid breeze just as she fled from the balcony into her apartment.

_Her _apartment.

Not Pop's old place.

Hers.

I find myself getting hard at the thought, and I gaze down at myself in astonishment. Not astonishing that I have an erection, because at age twenty-nine, I still have enough testosterone to get them often enough. (Although I admit no one but me is ever around to appreciate this particular biological occurrence.) No, my surprise is because I am fantasizing about a girl I have never actually met. I've never even seen her eyes. And eyes are a crucial part of the attraction for me. Okay, I admit that's strange; most guys dream about a girl's rack or a pair of long tan legs. Maybe they even lust over a robust butt with a tiny waist. And those things are good; like _really_ good. But if a girl doesn't have a set of beautiful orbs with expression in their depths, then my interest in them doesn't last for long. I 'm a sucker for eyes; doesn't matter the color, but they have to be, I don't know, compelling.

Compelling?

_Oh Christ on a paddle board in a pair of Nantucket red board shorts;_ I am never going to read another one of Angela's craptastic stories as long as I live. Angela is a fan fiction writer who's obsessed with manipulating characters from Pride and Prejudice. I'd never even heard of such a thing until she opened up her laptop one rainy day last winter during a lull. That's when I found out what a pervert she truly is. Seriously, the last time I read one of her chapters she had poor Mr. Darcy sitting in a bathtub, fully clothed, with his long legs clad in cordovan boots hanging over the side. His tan breeches were opened and a very naked, Elizabeth Bennett, sat on the commode and was leaning over to give him a blow job, with her wide, scarlet mouth.

I nearly blow my own load when I think about the girl next door perching on the commode waiting to take me in her mouth the second I opened the shower curtain. One little stroke would be all it takes to get me there. I lean over to grab the body wash from the shelf.

MEOW!

Jesus, Mary and Joseph's Technicolor dream coat! What in the fuck is Jenks doing up here? And more to the point, HOW did he get up here? This cat never comes upstairs; I honestly didn't think his fat ass could even make it up the stairs let alone find his way into my apartment. I know I had my door shut.

I wrench the handle of the faucet off and grab my towel and rub myself off roughly, then throw on a pair of gray boxers and a T shirt. Jenks gives me a smug look as he waltzes out of the bathroom and sashays over to the door between the apartments. He goes over to the entrance and sits directly in front of it and begins to meow pitifully. I stand to the side of the door and watch as it slowly opens; just a crack. I hold my breath and strain my ears. I'm not disappointed.

"Here Kitty-Kitty. Oh, that's a good boy. He's a good little man, isn't he? I was so happy you came to see me this morning on the deck. Did you enjoy the can of tuna? Yes …I know you did." The voice is no more than a velvet whisper, and I watch in wonder as Jenks lies himself down directly in front of the opening and a delicate finger comes into my view as it rubs the fur behind Jenks ear. He purrs loudly in satisfaction and rolls to his side in contentment.

"What's your name Kitty? Hey, sweet boy … do you want some more tuna tomorrow? I have another can waiting for you." Jenks' eyes close and his purrs practically rattle the dishes in my sink, they're so damn loud.

Torn between saying something to announce my presence and the desire to keep my trap shut so I can hear more of her soothing words, I finally decide to sit down on the floor next to Jenks as she continues her cute babble and continues to love on him. Without even thinking about it, I find my own hand reaching out to offer him a touch or two of my own. My fingers slide closer and closer to hers, and they accidentally graze her knuckle. I hear a small gasp and watch in dismay as her fingers freeze mid stroke, then retreat from the crack of the door. Jenks looks up and lets out a disgruntled noise to let us both know he doesn't appreciate the fact that his afternoon love fest has suddenly come to a grinding halt.

"Jenks. His name is Jenks," I tell her quietly, but quickly; I don't want to do or say anything that will upset her. My voice sounds rough, like it hasn't been used in years. I clear it lightly and resume scratching him a little behind his left ear. He looks at me sleepily and then looks back at the door. He lets out a small sigh and closes his eyes once more. I watch as her pale fingers slowly move back into view and find their way back to Jenks ear.

Our fingers rub and caress him for a few moments when I feel a little pressure near my smallest finger. I let out my breath slowly as our pinkies hook gently together.

"Jenks," she says softly. "It's nice to meet you."

And in this moment, the knot that formed around my heart when Tyler died last summer begins to loosen up just a little bit. I feel my chest tighten in an attempt to hold it together, but when I hear her soft voice crooning sweet nothings to Jenks I give up the effort. And then I hear the sound of my own voice, shaky but sure, fill the quiet around us as I begin to tell her about Tyler, and last summer, and our lost dreams. The band slowly unravels and leaves me feeling wide open and exposed.

And her pinky doesn't let go once, even as my words run dry and shadows begin to shroud the room.

I sit in silence and stare at our joined fingers as the sun sets over the canal, and twilight draws its curtain on a day that turned out to be really, really good.

ACITD

A/N: vovó_ is the nickname for grandmother in Portuguese. If you recall, Emmett is half Portuguese and half Irish. His father was killed in the Gulf War and his maternal grandmother is Old Lady Souza, who runs the corner market._

Okay I suck. Blame it on my husband's gallbladder surgery. Or my laptop, that died. Yeah, blame it on that f-er if you must blame something. Because if you knew the drama and the antics that I had to go through last time I updated just to keep its pulse going, you'd realize that it deserves _all_ the blame. It's fixed now. It needed a new DC port. So my first thanks go to the Geek Squad who only took 27 days to get it back to me. Ahem.

I'll try to do better. I now have Fridays off, (budget cuts. Sigh) so that should free up some of my time to write more consistently.

Thank you to Sunflower Fran who beta'd this chapter; you're awesome Fran and wicked fast! BTW ... I tweaked the crap out of this one after the fact, so if there are mistakes they are totally MY fault!

I would also like to thank Traci, who pre-read it for me. I love this girl!

Most especially I would like to thank all of you who are still reading my story. You will never know how much it means to me that people are reading my little ditties.

XO Jayne


	5. Chapter 5: Cocktails and Dreams

A Crack in the Door

Chapter Five: Cocktails and Dreams

Disclaimer: Hey … I don't own it, and unless you're Stephenie Meyer, you don't either. But that doesn't mean we can't play with her toys every once in awhile!

**Thank you to SunflowerFran3759 for her awesome editing skills. As always, I tweaked and tugged on the words after the fact, so any mistakes in this chapter are mine and mine alone.**

**NOTE:** This is a fairly longish chapter that deals with loss. Many of you have asked me who Tyler was in previous chapters. This is his story.

ACITD

It's 5:00 o'clock in the morning and I find myself back in the shower. As was the case a little over twenty-four hours ago, my thoughts drift back to the girl next door. Only this time my imagination is not needed to conjure up her reflection, although I have yet to see anything more than her delicate hand.

I remember that her fingers were long, yet slender, but her cuticle looked rough and raw. Her nails were sort of a pinkish-orange color, but they were chipped and ragged. Still, the overall effect was not one of someone who was dirty or careless about their appearance but of someone who had once cared and who no longer did. It's probably a strange thing for a guy to notice a small detail like that, but that's all she offered me.

And that right there is probably the biggest lie I've ever told myself. This girl didn't just offer me her pinky; she threw me a lifeline, and I held on to it with all my might.

If I'm lucky enough to live to be an old man, I will never forget the intimacy of yesterday's encounter. If I'm stuffed in a nursing home and the only woman I ever see is the one who comes around to change my fucking diaper, I promise that I will always remember the way her fingers stroked Jenks' silky, black fur, and rubbed behind his soft, white ear. And when I draw my last breath, it will be with the memory of the way our fingers touched for the first time.

I know, I'm not a poet, and I don't have the right words to express the way her touch made me feel. But I do know that when her pinky hooked with mine, I felt a jolt of electricity run between us. Although I was startled by the current, that shock was soon replaced by a feeling of warmth and wellbeing. It's hard to describe, but I felt like a piece of a puzzle that had been lost for years had suddenly been found and, (oh Christ in a Red Sox Cap, I'm gonna say it)

… It made me feel, whole.

I think the thing that moved me the most though, was that she sat there, all quiet-like. She never really said much of anything beyond crooning occasionally to Jenks. But her finger held fast to mine as I spilled my damn guts, and even though she was silent, I knew she was listening to me tell my tale, and that this was my turn, and that maybe, just maybe, hers would be soon.

Look, I am not someone who tells people a lot about what goes on inside my head. I never was that kind of guy, even when I was a kid. The one girlfriend I did have back in high school used to beg me to open up, but I never could. She tried every tactic known to womankind to get me to spill my soul; from plying me with alcohol to words of love and promises of sex. But even though I liked Tanya a lot, and I sure enjoyed her strategies, my mouth was tighter than a clam in a shell. I guess that's why after Pop died, and I was undecided about what to do, she broke off with me. I'd come to her after I met with Pop's lawyer and had hoped she'd help me figure things out. But as always, the words just stuck in my throat and I couldn't form them properly. I tried, but all I really did was hem and haw. I didn't have to suffer in silence for long.

'_Listen, Edward, I'm sorry about your father and all, I truly am. But I'm going off to college in the fall, and I don't want this life. I want to travel and make something of myself. Besides, you never tell me how you're feeling about anything, let alone that you love me. I get that you're a quiet type, but you just seem to hold _everything in, and_ that's not for me. I'm passionate, Edward; about food, drink, poetry, books, fashions, and people. You're not passionate about anything, except maybe with the idea of becoming a lawyer. And quite frankly, unless you have someone arguing your cases for you, I just don't see that happening. No, I think you'll end up exactly like your father and you'll be right here, with you thinking you own the bar, when it actually owns you.' _

That was over ten years ago, and the last time I heard from Tanya, she was engaged to some film maker from Russia. They live in the Balkan Islands now.

Anyway, the next day I contacted Mrs. Cope, and between us she helped me formulate a plan to keep pop's business afloat. It was Mrs. C who convinced me that I could manage the bar, providing I had the proper support system in place. It was Mrs. C who hired Mike, and it was from her vast network of family that I hired Tyler.

Tyler.

When I told Marie, or whatever her name actually is, about him last night, I was hesitant. I spend my days taking things out, and my nights putting things away. I don't like talking about Tyler. But last night, with my neighbor's quiet comfort, I found myself telling her his story. It wasn't easy; I glossed over the details, but I told it just the same. And now thoughts of him are pouring out like a valve that refuses to close.

Tyler was 27 years old when he came to run the commercial end of the bar. He was young, but he was an experienced bartender. He'd grown up in Rhode Island and came from a prominent and old moneyed family. His father was a politician and his mother a socialite who made a full time career out of running garden clubs and the women's auxiliary. His younger brother was being groomed to follow in his Daddy's footsteps, and his older sister was a graduate of Brown University, who had recently become engaged to one of the Kennedy boys, whom she'd met while attending John-John's funeral.

Tyler was widely considered to be the family fuck up. He'd been kicked out of every prep school on the East Coast, and in a fit of desperation, his family packed him up and shipped him off to a military school in Virginia. There, he'd discovered the one thing he was really good at; men. When the Commander discovered his own son planted firmly between Tyler's thighs during an impromptu inspection, Tyler's folks were contacted the same day;his bags packed up tighter than a tick, and he was on a plane headed to TF Green Airport before dusk fell. When he returned home, the maid and staff helped him pack up the remainder of his belongings, and he was told by his former nanny that his presence at Hill House was no longer required. A check in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars and a letter telling him essentially what the nanny had already stated, was on the mantle, wedged between the Staffordshire dogs and the Seth Thomas clock.

Tyler stole his father's 1944 Willys MB, (a fact that he was thrilled over, which he kept running for the rest of his days, and is now parked in the back of the garage. I haven't looked at it once, and I don't even know if it'll crank anymore. But it was his pride and joy. Although truthfully, I think he loved the fact that he ripped it off of his old man's collection of rare automobiles more than anything else. His father never pressed charges, _'Because my father doesn't want his name attached to me in any size, shape or form, and if he files a police report, there'd have to be an investigation.')_

Once Tyler deposited his check at Citizen's and Trust Bank, he filled up the jeep, got on 195 East, turned on to route six, and kept on trucking all the way to P-Town. Once there he made a few friends, who helped him find _'A crap apartment over a bar, just like this joint.'_ Tyler took a job as a busboy at the bar, and within a few years, had become the head bartender. With his charm and good looks, he became a huge sensation. People flocked in by the dozens to see Tyler in action. The man had moves similar to the ones Tom Cruise and his buddy had in that old movie from the eighties; Cocktail. In fact, it was from that movie Tyler took his inspiration. He dreamed about a lot of stuff, Tyler did.

'_You know what, Dude? One of these days I'm going to pack up my pony shirts and get the fuck off this one horse hunk of puritanical real estate, and I'm going to sail off to some island, any, fucking island, and anywhere that isn't fucking here._ _And I'm going to take your sad, raggedy, non-preppy ass with me, too. Because, you know Edward, this was your father's dream, not yours. You owe it to yourself to live an honest life.'_

But even though Tyler had actually planned that dream long before he met me, he never did.

Because at the age of 26, Tyler, who had gone through a buffet of gay men,' _and few straight ones too,_' had fallen deeply, and passionately, in love.

Guy Laurent was a mechanic who lived in Truro. He met Tyler when Tyler had needed a part for the Willys, and he gave it, and Tyler, a full overhaul; complete with his '_plug sparked, and a good lube job, too_.' At least according to Tyler, whose way with words could make a sailor blush.

Laurent was a French Canadian who had immigrated to the states when he was a teenager. He was a decade older than Tyler, and was nothing like the drama queens who pranced around Provincetown with their sad, little scripts that chronicled their personal accounts about their messed up lives.

The thing is; Tyler knew it was wrong, right from the get-go. They had nothing in common. Where Tyler was quietly elegant, with his To the Manor Born accent and demeanor, Guy was coarse and rough around the edges. But Tyler claimed that inside his grease monkey lay the heart of a poet. Guy serenaded him with snatches of prose and poems he read with a voracious appetite, between brake jobs and sensor replacements.

Their relationship might have been limited to that of the occasional rumble and tumble in the back of the ancient jeep, but Guy had shown up at Tyler's apartment one rainy night, looking dark and miserable. He confessed to Tyler that even though he didn't identify himself as gay, he was completely and irrevocably in love with him. That night, instead of the usual toss in the Old Heap, they had taken a long walk on the beach and then returned to Tyler's loft, where they had made love until the birds chirped with the sunrise over the bay. When they awoke, Guy pulled out a book of Lord Byron's sonnets and began to read to him in French. They lay in bed for a long while afterwards, and then they headed back to the garage, the sound of Guy's words of love and promise still ringing in his ears.

Unfortunately, what Guy hadn't read to him was a piece of paper that was filed under The Department of Vital Records in the State of Massachusetts entitled, Certificate of Marriage.

When Guy's wife had shown up the next afternoon at the garage with their newborn baby in tow, Tyler was sitting with Guy in the back of the Willys having his pistons pumped. Guy's wife, a devout catholic from Fall River, took one look inside the jeep, uttered a scream that would wake the saints from their slumber, fell to her knees and frantically began to pray on her ebony, rosary beads. The baby, startled by his mother's cries, began to yell at the top of his lungs. The noises were so loud that a crowd began to form from other business nearby, and Guy knew then that he was well and truly fucked. He took one look over his shoulder, saw the growing crowd peering inside his shop, grabbed a wrench out of his pocket, and hit Tyler as hard as he could between his shoulder blades and followed that with a few punches to his eyes and jaw. He then threw himself out of the vehicle, grabbed his wife, scooped up his screaming son, and yelled for the police claiming he'd been molested. It would have been downright comical if Tyler hadn't been so hurt, both physically and emotionally. His shirt was already soaked with blood, and he knew there had to be, at the very least, some tendon damage. But he didn't even notice that as he started the engine of the Willys, popped it in gear, and practically hit the throng of Rubber Necker's as he fled out of the garage. He drove home, shaken and confused. Guy never told him that he was married, let alone that he had a newborn child.

'_The thing is Edward, I should have known. Guy always wore a wedding band; it hung from a long gold chain around his neck. When I asked him about it, he told me it had been his deceased father's, and I had no reason not to believe him.'_

That night, Tyler called his mother. The two of them hadn't spoken to each other in over seven years. Although Sloan Crowley was a ridiculous socialite, whose only real concerns were whether to wear her mother's pearls or her Aunt Frances's sapphires, she did love her son, after a fashion. Perhaps it was due to her recent charity work with the Saint Jude's for Children's foundation, or her involvement with her husband's new**, **political campaign to champion gay marriage, (the hypocrite) but Sloan welcomed his call. She listened to Tyler's story for a few moments and offered him the number of her Scottish housekeeper's cousin; Shelly Cope.

'_And Tyler, you can always come home. Well, at least until your father has secured the loyalties of the Gay community. Bear in mind that although his politics may have changed, he hasn't.'_

Tyler thanked her for the contact, and hung up the call feeling as disconnected as the phone. He knew he'd never set foot in his father's house nor was likely to see either of his parents ever again. He packed up his shit, put his notice in the mail, grabbed his keys, and after making a quick call to Mrs. C, headed to Seaconch.

I met him that same night. I was sitting back in the office, scrambling to understand Pop's paper mess that he called book-keeping. I was only nineteen at the time, and although I was getting better at managing the accounts, I still had yet to find anyone who was able to take over the bar that I could trust. Pop had a big personality and had such a way with people, that he was impossible to replace. Sure, I had Angela, a bespectacled brunette who lived in Barnstable with her Reverend father, and oh-so-pious mother. But she wasn't a lively person, despite her zeal for reading material that bordered on porn.

When Tyler showed up, all wind-blown, edgy, and practically begging for me to take him on, I was torn. Yes, I needed a fulltime bartender, but I wasn't sure about hiring a guy who looked like he's just lost his best friend in a car wreck and who had barely survived it himself. He was bloody, bruised, and worse, he was wearing a Brooks Brothers shirt and a pair of Bermuda shorts that featured tiny paddles and canoes. I shook my head when I saw that he had on a watch that looked as though its value was worth more than _The Swan Dive's_ yearly profits. But there was something in his eyes that belied all that. He had a desperate look about him, true, but the overall feeling he gave me was one of hope. He looked hopeful. And even though his jaw was swollen and his eyes blackened, I got the sense that this guy's heart was more damaged than his good looks.

'Listen, I know I look like something the cat dragged in right now, but I swear I know how to tend bar. I've got more moves than Paul Arpin Van Lines when it comes to fixing cocktails. Plus, I sing and play the piano. Just, I don't know, just … give me a chance. Please."

Upon making this speech he'd gone over to Pop's old Steinway and perched his behind on the stool. I noticed his shorts had one of those stupid little buckles in the back. I swear I nearly kicked his ass out of the door right then, there, and on the spot. But before I could signal Mike over to give him the boot, Tyler flexed his fingers, bent over the keys, and began to play … with a single hand, and man, he was good! Like, really, really good. His fingers flew over the keys, and the bar was filled with music and fucking joy. And when a surprisingly deep and rich voice began to accompany his notes, the patrons of the bar began to flock around him like a pack of seagulls hovering over a discarded bag of Pepperidge Farm Bread.

He was amazing.

I hired Tyler Crowley that same night and never looked back.

He did though.

Tyler would head back to P-Town every few weeks. I'd watch as his face would turn from the clock to the canal and back. A look of indecision would cross his patrician features and then he'd let out a small sigh, give his shoulders a slight shrug, and throw me a look that teetered between belligerence and apology. By then we had become friends, having stayed up late one night, long after the bar had closed and the last drop of Goldschlager was slurped.

That was the night we both got a little drunk and he tried to kiss me. I was shocked stupid at first. I mean I'd known he was gay, but that didn't bother me a bit; growing up on The Cape, I was more than comfortable around homosexuals. But what did surprise me was his reaction, and that of my own. Tyler had no sooner pressed his mouth on mine, when he let out a short sound of surprise, and immediately burst into tears. As for myself I had felt no revulsion at all. None. I also felt no desire, which wasn't exactly a shock, since I was completely aware of my own sexuality and it just didn't orient that way. But all that I felt was compassion, and, oddly, comfort.

After his remorseful apology and pleas about not firing his ass, I went around back to the bar and poured us each another shot, then two more. Before you knew it, Tyler had poured out his entire life's story to me as I continued to pour the Patron. We went from mildly tipsy to full fledge shit-faced in the span of twenty minutes. I think Tyler was the only person I ever told about my mother's perfume, until two nights ago.

After that night, Tyler and I became friends. He was the complete opposite from me, which meant that he never knew a stranger. He greeted everyone who came into _The_ _Swan Dive_ as if they were an old friend he hadn't seen in years. His enthusiasm and his talents with both the bottles and the customers had brought this place back to life. He wasn't Pop, but he had the same effervescent approach to life. People gravitated to Tyler just as they had to my father. He was a good looking bastard too, which certainly helped draw in the girls. I wondered briefly when I first hired him if he would attract the guys too, and that worried me just a duke; I wasn't sure how Pop would feel about _The Swan Dive_ turning into a gentlemen's club, P-Town style. But Tyler's mannerisms only bespoke of generations of gentility, and good breeding. If he put off a gay vibe, it wasn't one that defined him. Tyler was his own man, except where his heart was concerned.

It was Tyler who taught me the difference between a long pour, a short one, and all the bullshit in between. He worked the crowd into a frenzy many a night with his acrobatics and his musical renditions, which was everything from Cole Porter to Billy Joel. Sometimes I even accompanied him on my old guitar. I wasn't very good, but with Tyler banging away on the piano, that hardly mattered**;** he was so talented that any bad chord I made went unnoticed.

Tyler also taught me to sail; something Pop had also loved, but was never able to do after he bought the bar. He had an old Herreshoff stored in a warehouse behind the bar, and when Tyler had nosed around one afternoon, he practically begged me on his knees to sell it to him. I couldn't sell him Pop's old boat though, even if he hadn't sailed it in years. But Tyler finally wore me out, and thus a compromise was rendered; he'd teach me how to play the piano in exchange for allowing him to fix up the craft and get it back into shape. It took six months of Tyler's loving care to get the boat, which he aptly named, _Man Trouble_, ready to set sail, and two more years of lessons before he deemed me worthy to tickle the ivories for the customers, a prospect that fucking terrified me, but he did it. And, even though I threw up in the bathroom before and after my recital, I did it too. Later that night, with the applause of customers ringing in my ears and Mrs. Cope's enthusiastic kiss on my cheek, Tyler and I took _Man Trouble_ out for a moonlight sail.

It was a beautiful night in late June, and the stars were so bright that we didn't even need to use the lantern of the boat. We'd brought a cooler of beer and some crabs that we'd snuck out of Mrs. C's kitchen. We drank, ate, and drank some more. Tyler regaled me with stories from his childhood, ones that I couldn't even begin to fathom because he had just been so damn rich. He had traveled everywhere back then and had been to more tony-assed private schools than a Kennedy. But Tyler was not a snob; he was a classic. He made everyone laugh and feel good about themselves; even me; hell, especially me. Mrs. Cope adored him for that because according to her until Tyler showed up, I rarely laughed. She told him that he'd brought me to life.

I let out a sigh thinking about her words; he hadn't brought me back to life so much as he had allowed me to absorb life through his energy. He was just that way; lively, fun, graceful and kind.

It was Tyler who'd brought home Jenks one snowy night a few years after he'd come into my life. He's been driving back from P-Town and spotted him on the road; his black fur was all matted and full of mange. I hadn't wanted a god damned cat at all and told Tyler that, in those exact words. But he only looked at me with those pleading blue eyes and mumbled that he'd be beneficial to the bar; that he'd keep the rats and the mice away. Hah! As if … He won me over though, when I saw how sad his face was when he walked back behind the bar to look for a bowl to put a tiny amount of half and half in for the cat.

_'Bad night?'_ I asked, giving him a once over. I saw his hand reach for the bowl and gasped when I saw the large bruise swelling on his wrist. I then noticed a claw mark on his neck. At first I thought it must have come from the cat, but upon further inspection I saw the tattle tale marks of black grease, and I knew then that it wasn't from a feline, but from a more dangerous animal, Guy Laurent.

'_Fuck, Tyler! Why do you keep on going back to that son of a bitch__**'**__?_ I yelled.

He looked at me puzzled as if I had to ask. Then in typical Tyler fashion, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, _'Because I love him,'_ as if that explained it all. Before I had a chance to utter a reply, he changed the subject and asked, '_Can we call him Jenks?'_

I remember looking at him then; the same look I would give him dozens of times over the course of the next nine years when he would return home from a night or two in Provincetown, broken and bleeding. I guess if I had to describe my look it was one of sympathy, but not understanding, because if I lived to be a thousand years old I will never understand how someone could love a cheating, miserable bastard like Guy Laurent.

The cheating part about the whole fucking thing is what tore Tyler up most of all.

"_He left Loraine_, he'd say. 'We're _going to run off with each other. He doesn't love her, you know. He told me so. I know he has a terrible temper, but Edward, he is such a good man, otherwise, he really is.' _And the next week he'd return, broken again, because Loraine had returned or he'd find out she never actually left. The cycle went on and on.

As the years past, Tyler stopped telling me about Guy Laurent all together. I tried to talk to him about it; tried telling him how wrong it was and that even if they did truly love each other it was wrong for Laurent to carry on with him when he was legally married and had a kid. And while Tyler acknowledged all of that, he was still unable to quit seeing him. Eventually, I stopped asking.

Five years ago, Tyler decided it was time to go back to school. He had rented a small cottage not far from Cape Cod Community College and had earned his GED. He convinced me to get my Associate's degree in Business. He enrolled too, and figured we'd work around our schedules while we took classes and studied. We'd both graduated with honors, and later enrolled in an online program. We earned our Bachelor's degrees just last summer. Mrs. Cope hosted a huge surprise party for us at the bar, well; most of the guests were simply the regular barflies I guess, with a few of my buddies from high school tossed in. But it was a lot of fun. That was a good night.

It was also the last we shared together.

Because the next day, Tyler took off to Provincetown. I didn't even know he had returned until three days later when the cops woke me up in the wee hours of the morning. The Coast Guard had found _Man Trouble _bobbing in the water; the sails flat, and the helm listing. They secured the craft and found Tyler in the hull.

They smelled the whiskey before they spotted the trail of blood that led them to where he lay. A revolver and a scant note with the words_, I'm sorry_, was all that was left to mark the final thoughts of a man who had been so damn chatty in life. Somehow I think I'd always known it was going to end this way. After all, most of Tyler's favorite movies and books ended with the self-inflicted death of the protagonist.

"I miss you, Tyler. I fucking miss you. You were the best friend I ever had, except maybe Em, and you fucking threw in the towel and left my ass, just like Pop … just like everyone."

I let out a choking sound that startles me back into reality. That's when I realize that I'd spoken out loud and that I'm standing here shivering under the cold shower. I reach out to yank the faucet and grab my towel, but I can't see, because there's something wrong with my eyes. Force of habit allows me to finish this task, still I can't seem to move; it's like I'm just rooted to the spot. My legs must have been frozen in this position for at least an hour, maybe more. I try to rub my eyes to clear my vision and see the clock, but I can't.

I hear the sound of the door creak, and in the dim light I make out the silhouette of a pale hand.

I command my legs to fucking move, and they do.

I go over to the door and sort of plop with a thud on the floor and reach blindly for the hand that guides me. I grab it and hold it as if it's my anchor.

"Sh, sh … it's all right now. I've got you Teddy," I hear her whisper.

I sit and just fucking cry for the first time since my mother died. I know I'm not one to shed a tear; I didn't cry for Pop, or even for Tyler until now. And I'm not fucking stupid, I'm not some clueless ass … I don't need a shrink to tell me that these tears are not just for Tyler, they're for everyone I've ever known. I know that.

She sits on the other side of the door quietly rubbing and stroking my hand, even though there is no cat between us. When I finally drain myself of twenty-four years of stored up liquid, I feel empty and full for the first time.

We sit there in silence for a very long time. I can hear the sounds of the gulls flying and even the soft sounds of the boats as they pass over the canal. I hear the sound of my own heart. I almost think I can hear hers too. But neither of us says a word.

And then I hear her clear her throat, just a little. My ears shut down every other noise that surrounds us; including the tandem beat of our hearts.

"Six … six months ago, I lost every friend I had," she whispers.

And that's when I know that the bar is going to have to open without me.

It's her turn.

ACITD

**A/N: Thank you for reading. I realize this was a long chapter and that it was quite detailed. I felt that Tyler needed his story to be told. It wasn't an easy story to share. I hope I told it well. Things are going to move along at a faster pace now, because, after all, it's her turn.**

**Please consider leaving a review; your thoughts and words mean so much to me. Thanks! Jayne**


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